


Kindness

by LadyRazorsharp



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Creepy, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 04:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16110695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRazorsharp/pseuds/LadyRazorsharp
Summary: Playing in @artisticrainey's 'Butterflies' sandbox.John Tracy has been kidnapped while trying to be a Good Samaritan. Locked up and drugged by a madwoman playing a terrifying game, John is at her mercy...and her teenage daughter finds herself unable to stand by and watch, despite the danger to both John and herself...





	Kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArtisticRainey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/gifts).



AN: This is in @artisticrainey’s ‘Butterflies’ universe; she has graciously allowed me to play in her sandbox. Go read her story; it’s fabulous (see her Tumblr).

 

Kindness

By The Lady Razorsharp

 

The house was quiet as Amelia let herself in the kitchen door via the key hidden under the mat. “Mum?” she called out, eyes darting around the well-scrubbed kitchen with its cheery red-and-white checked tablecloth and apple suncatchers hanging in the window. There was no answer, so she breathed a quiet sigh of relief and stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

It had been two months since her mother had brought John to the house, but there was nothing--at least on the ground floor--to mark his arrival or hint that he was locked upstairs. Woodenly, Amelia poured herself a glass of milk and fished two shortbread biscuits from the ceramic apple-shaped jar, replacing the stem lid with a clink of crockery. She sat and ate her snack, her mind blank, until she found herself reaching for the second biscuit. She stopped and looked at it, then cast a glance over her shoulder at the door, as if her mother had entered and was silently standing behind her.

There was no one. She was alone.

With her heart pounding in her ears from her own audacity, she rose from her chair. Pocketing the biscuit, she climbed the stairs to the first floor.

The door to John’s room was closed, but not locked, which meant that her mother had cuffed him to the bedstead before going out. Amelia knocked quietly.

“John,” she stage-whispered. “It’s me, Amelia. Can I come in?”

No answer.

He might be asleep, she mused, but whether it was exhaustion or drugged sleep, she didn’t know.

Amelia knocked a little louder, casting another glance over her shoulder. “John? Are you awake?”

The bedsprings creaked, there was a groan, and then the unmistakable sound of retching came from the other side of the door. Amelia winced as John gagged and coughed, and she knew his body was trying desperately to rid itself of the drugs her mother had literally shoved down his throat. Then the sound changed, gaining a horrible rattle and a deep wheezing gasp, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

He was choking.

Without thinking, Amelia threw open the door, hurried over to the stricken man, and helped him to turn onto his side. She whacked him soundly between the shoulders, and eventually the coughing stopped. She sat with her thigh propped against his back in case he wasn’t done--although from what she could tell, he’d brought up mostly bile. Apparently he’d refused food or, more likely, her mother hadn’t bothered to feed him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice very small.

Slowly, he turned to fix her with an incredulous pair of blue-topaz irises swimming in a sea of watery red. “Do I _ look _ like I’m all right?” he grated.

She blanched. “No, but...better than you were a minute ago, I guess.” She slid off the bed and fetched a cup of water from the tap in the bathroom, then returned to find him lying weakly on his back, his left hand thrown over his eyes. “Maybe some water might help?”

He sighed. “No. Go away.”

Amelia frowned and put the cup on the night table. “Well, I’ll leave it here in case you want some.” Then she remembered and reached into her pocket. “I brought you a biscuit. I thought you might be hungry.”

John lowered his hand and studied her, blond brows meeting on his sweaty forehead. “What?”

She held it out. “It’s shortbread. I made them.” Her face fell. “They’re Mum’s favorite.”

He continued to study her, blue eyes taking in every detail, and she ducked her head, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you.” He took the treat from her with trembling fingers, and slowly began to nibble on it. She fetched the cup and helped him sip from it, since his other hand was still cuffed to the bed. After a few bites, he closed his eyes and pushed the half-eaten biscuit back into her hand. “That’s all I can do,” he groaned. “Any more and it’ll just come back up.” She went to lay it on the nightstand, but he stopped her with an outstretched hand. “Throw it away,” he cautioned. “And put the cup back where it was. You’ll be in trouble if…” He swallowed. “If she finds out you were here.”

Amelia stuffed the biscuit back into her pocket and replaced the cup in its holder by the sink. She walked back into the room where John lay. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, her voice small again.

He regarded her blearily through half-lidded eyes. “Do you know where the key to the handcuffs is?”

“No.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“No. Mum won’t let me have one.”

He shook his head. “Not much you can do for me right now, then.”

“I’m sorry.” She stood at the foot of his bed, trying not to look at him from the waist down. “I’ve...never seen a naked man before,” she admitted, blushing.

John brought his free hand down and draped it over his crotch. “I’m sorry that this is how you got your first look,” he replied. “It shouldn’t be this way.”

“It’s all right.” She ventured a shy smile. “I didn’t see much.”  She studied John’s bare toes. “Although I think you’re handsome.”

“Amelia,” he said, his voice going to stone. “You need to leave right now.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she blurted.  “I’m always saying the wrong thing.” Tears began to squeeze out of the corners of her eyes.

“No, I mean  _ you need to leave right now, _ ” he repeated through clenched teeth. “I heard tyres on the drive. She’s back.”

Amelia’s head flashed up, terror freezing her to the spot. “Oh,  _ no, _ ” she whimpered.

“Get out,” John snapped.  _ “Go!” _

His voice was sharp and full of command, and it unlocked her enough so she could scurry out the door and shut it behind her.  Keys were rattling in the door downstairs, and she stood on the landing for a few heartbeats trying to calm her breathing. She wiped her eyes and pushed her hair back, then slowly descended the stairs as if her shoes were made of lead.

“Oh,” said her mother with a sneer. “It’s _ you _ .” Grace flung her keys into her handbag and dropped the worn leather satchel on the counter, then turned her attention to the wrapped parcels that lay scattered on the table. Amelia reached for one, but her mother snatched it out of her hands.

_ “It’s mine!” _ Grace screamed. “Spoiled brat! You’ve got plenty of pretties.” She cradled the package in her arms and added the rest on top. “It’s time Mummy had a few.” She giggled. “They’re from _ him _ .”

Amelia dropped her hands, twisting them together. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You  _ should _ be,” her mother spat, then took a breath and shook herself. When she spoke again, her voice was composed and sweet.  “Now be a good girl and get supper going while Mummy opens her pressies. Did you finish your lessons?”

“I did them at school.” It was true; knowing her mother would be gone, she’d stayed in the library until the librarian told her it was time to lock up.

Grace made her way to the stairs. “Just bring the tray up to John’s room.” She giggled again. “We’re going to have a nice romantic dinner, just the two of us.”

“What do you want me to bring for him?” It was the wrong thing to say, and Amelia’s breath caught as her mother’s face darkened. “What I meant was…” Amelia gave a little cough. “I’ll put enough on your tray for two. And the candles.”

Her mother’s face relaxed into a pitying smile. “He’s been feeling so poorly,” she cooed. “Although if you make that lovely curry, I might be able to tempt him into a wee bite.”

The curry was her mother’s favorite as well; Amelia had learned the recipe by heart, they had it so often. “Yes, Mum.” She couldn’t imagine John’s touchy stomach handling even the mildest curry, but she duly concocted the rich, creamy dish and made a pot of quick-cooking rice. She arranged it on the plate like she’d seen the chefs on television do, sprinkling it with bits of green herb and making sure the rim of the plate was clean before placing it and the silverware on the worn metal tray. With a secret smile, she tucked two shortbread biscuits into a napkin as dessert, hoping that John would see them and, as her mother said, at least be a little tempted.

She’d told him the truth earlier; she hadn’t seen much of him, but what she saw worried her. She knew that even though he was tall and lean, she wasn’t supposed to be able to see his ribs. He  _ had _ to eat, she thought, as she carefully made her way upstairs with the laden tray. Otherwise he’d be like Ian and Marcus, buried in the garden under the petunias.

Amelia’s throat closed up at the thought of John lying cold and grey and still as she and her mother shoveled dirt on him. She _ had _ to do something, but what?

Since her hands were full, she tapped on John’s door with the toe of her sneaker. “Room service,” she called, remembering how her mother had been particularly pleased with that bit of play acting, even as it made her own skin crawl.

“Come in,” her mother sing-songed, and she shifted the tray carefully to turn the knob. Inside, the room was lit cheerfully, and smelled of starch rather than vomit; her mother must have cleaned the floor. John was propped on two pillows, staring dully at the portable television sitting on the dresser. His hair was damp from a shower, and he wore a freshly ironed dress shirt of pale blue cotton and navy dress slacks, though he was still barefoot and handcuffed. Her mother was seated on the bed next to him, a mound of boxes around her feet like it was Christmas morning, all manner of trinkets piled on the night table. She herself was wearing a new frock of light blue chintz patterned with navy blue toile, her feet encased in navy blue leather pumps. She held out her right wrist, which was encircled by a bracelet of costume pearls. “Look at what John got me,” she gushed. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Amelia shot a glance at John, who acted as if he hadn’t heard the conversation, then back at the bauble. “It’s lovely, Mum,” she said, setting the tray over John’s lap.

“He’s always spoiling me, the dear.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, leaving a bright pink lip print on his pale skin. Again, John did not stir.

“Will there be anything else?” Amelia stood primly, continuing to play-act. She hoped it would  buy her a few extra seconds to look at John, but he just sat and stared. As she watched him, a bead of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, and her heart sank; her mother had already drugged him into a stupor.

“That will be all.” Grace gently wiped the droplet away with her napkin. “Time for our little stay-at-home date, isn’t it, darling?”

John murmured something, sounding as if his tongue was too big for his mouth, and Grace threw back her head and giggled. “Oh, John, you say the funniest things!”

Amelia turned and walked calmly to the door, opened it, and shut it carefully behind her. She descended the stairs, unlocked the kitchen door, and stepped outside, making sure to shut the door firmly. As soon as the cool air hit her, a wave of blind terror washed over her, and she bolted across the farmyard and out toward the meadow. When she reached the fence, nearly a quarter mile from the house, she threw herself against the worn boards and clung, sobbing.

_ He’s going to die, _ her brain screamed.  _ He’s going to die! _

_ “No,” _ she moaned. “Oh,  _ no _ .”

 


End file.
